Curse of the Shadowmage

by Monte Cook

  “Serafi,” Morhion hissed in trepidation and loathing. “Why have you come to me? It is not the full moon. You have had your blood for this month.”

  The spectral knight drifted slowly toward Morhion, his eyes glowing with unearthly blood-red fire. “I have come to help you, Morhion,” the spirit intoned.

  “I do not think I can afford any more of your help,” Morhion said bitterly. He gestured to the myriad scars that covered his arms.

  “Oh, but you can, Morhion,” Serafi countered in his chilling voice. “You can, and you will.”

  Morhion’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “What makes you so certain I’d be interested?” His tone was bold, but he could not quite disguise the trembling in his voice.

  “I know you, Morhion,” Serafi said, drifting closer. “I know you as no other possibly could.”

  Morhion choked down the panic rising in his throat. “What do you want, usurper?”

  The ghostly knight’s eyes flashed. “Do not taunt me with that name, Morhion. You will only regret it. For I have something that you would pay dearly to possess.”

  “What?”

  “Knowledge. The power to save or damn Caledan Caldorien once and for all.”

  Morhion found himself sinking weakly into a velvet chair, gripping the smooth wood of the arms. Serafi hovered behind him. Morhion could feel the spirit’s chill, dusty breath on the back of his neck.

  “What do you seek in return for this knowledge, Serafi?” the mage asked in disgust. “Do you wish to drink my blood twice each moon?”

  The spirit’s laughter curdled Morhion’s blood. “Nay. Knowledge this great is worth far more than a mere sip of blood.”

  “Then what?”

  The spectral knight’s voice became a chantlike whisper. “I do not think you realize, mage, how cold it is to be dead. How cold, how dry, how hollow. I long to experience again all the sensations of life. You cannot imagine how deep and vast my hunger is, Morhion. To feel again—that is what I crave beyond all. To see with living eyes, to taste with fleshly tongue, to touch with warm fingers. I want these things, and all the other delicious sensations that living flesh has to offer.”

  Morhion was sweating. “But life brings pain as well as pleasure, Serafi.”

  “Yes, and I want to experience that as well,” Serafi spoke exultantly. “After the numbing cold of death, even the fiercest agony would be sweet awakening.”

  “But how can I give you what you want?” Morhion demanded, fearing the answer. Suddenly he stiffened. A chill caress ran down his neck, his shoulders, his chest, traveling over his body, touching him in places where he had not been touched by another in long years. He wanted to cry out, to leap from the chair, but he sat as if frozen to the spot. A low moan escaped his throat, a mixture of fear and strangled pleasure.

  “You have kept your body well.” Serafi’s voice burned in his brain like poison. “You are older than I would like, yet you are strong, and handsome of face. I think that, with a body such as yours, I could seek out and enjoy all the sensations I desire …”

  At last, Morhion managed to wrest himself from the ghostly embrace, lurching from the chair. Gasping for breath, he spun around to stare at the spectral knight. “I don’t understand,” he choked. But even as he spoke the words, he knew he was lying—that he did understand, and had already made his choice.

  Serafi’s sinister voice echoed all around him. “I would live again, Morhion. And I require your body to do so. I will give to you the knowledge you need to save Caledan. I will grant you the time you need to pursue him and halt his metamorphosis. But, when the quest is over, my payment will be due.” The spirit’s eyes burned into Morhion. “And your body will become mine.”

  “What … what then will become of my spirit?” Morhion managed to gasp.

  Serafi waved a translucent hand, as if this were a matter of no importance. “You will be dead, Morhion. Nothing more, nothing less. Simply dead.” Drifting through the chair, the spectral knight approached. “Tell me your answer, mage. Do you accept my bargain?”

  Terror clenched Morhion’s heart. He could not do this. Even he, who had sacrificed so much in his life for what he believed was the larger good. Or could he? Once before, he had destroyed his friendship with Caledan in order to save Caledan’s life. Now that friendship had grown anew, stronger than ever. Once again, was there anything he would not do for Caledan’s sake? All at once, the terror melted from Morhion’s chest. A strange peace descended on him. As if in a dream, he heard himself speak the words.

  “I accept.”

  Six

  The sending from Master Harper Belhuar Thantarth came to Mari in the shadowless hour before dawn.

  She had not slept. Kellen lay curled inside a patchwork quilt before the common room’s fieldstone hearth, sleeping the untroubled sleep of a child. Mari sighed, longing for such innocence. However, she was no child.

  A crackling sound shattered the still air. Mari jerked her head up, gripping the arms of her chair with white-knuckled hands. A shining azure sphere hovered in midair before her. White-hot tendrils snaked around the sphere, sizzling and popping brightly. The acrid stench of lightning filled her lungs. Abruptly an image appeared in the center of the glowing orb—the face of a man. His eyes were kind, but his graying beard and hard expression lent a sternness to his visage. Mari took in a sharp breath.

  “Master Thantarth!” she exclaimed.

  She was shocked anew when the image in the sphere spoke to her in return.

  “Greetings, Mari Al’maren.”

  Mari’s mind raced. She had heard rumors that, among the Harpers, there were one or two mages capable of sending messages over vast distances. However, the power required for a feat like this was immeasurable. Messages were relayed in this manner in only the direst of circumstances. Slowly, Mari rose from the chair, her muscles stiff from sitting all night.

  “How may I serve the Harpers, Master Thantarth?” Her tone was formal. She had spoken face-to-face with Belhuar Thantarth only once before, when she had first joined the Harpers. He was the Master of Twilight Hall, the western stronghold of the Harpers, located in the city of Berdusk. His duties kept him too preoccupied with great affairs to deal directly with all the Harpers under him. Orders from Thantarth were usually relayed by the high-ranking Harpers who served as his assistants. Thantarth was reputed to be a stern but benevolent man who was not afraid to anger others in pursuit of what he believed was right.

  “I have a new task for you, Al’maren,” said the image of Thantarth in the glowing sphere. His deep voice reverberated in the still air of the common room. “And I will tell you now that it will be the most difficult mission you have ever undertaken.”

  Mari’s heart skipped wildly in her chest. “On my oath as a Harper, I will do my best, Master Thantarth.”

  Thantarth nodded somberly. “That is well, Al’maren, for this task will require all your strength, and far more.” His steely eyes seemed to search her heart, piercing it as they scanned for something. “I have dire news, Mari. We have reason to believe that Caledan Caldorien is undergoing a terrible transformation—the same transformation that, a thousand years ago, resulted in the creation of the magical creature of darkness known as the Shadowking.”

  Despite her years of training, Mari could not conceal the anguish on her face. She had not thought the Harpers would come to this realization themselves. Yet why shouldn’t they? There was little that surpassed the reach or understanding of the Harpers.

  “I see you have reached the same conclusion,” Thantarth said grimly.

  “Just last night,” Mari answered hoarsely.

  “After Caledan’s disappearance and the happenings in Corm Orp, there can be no other explanation,” the Master Harper said.

  Mari gathered her will. “What is to be my mission, Master Thantarth?”

  It took him a long moment to speak. When he did, there was no longer a hint of sorrow in his voice. Cold authority spoke. “You know Caledan bett
er than any in the Harpers, Al’maren. That is why I am giving this task to you. Your mission is to track Caledan Caldorien. And when you find him, your orders are”—Thantarth hesitated only a fraction of a heartbeat—“to destroy him.”

  It was as if someone had yanked the ground out from beneath Mari’s feet. She managed to grab the edge of a table and hold on, and only by this means did she manage to keep her footing. Finally she gasped a single word.

  “What?”

  “You heard my orders, Al’maren.” Thantarth’s voice was cold, hard stone.

  She shook her head dully. Gradually, anger flared to life inside her. She welcomed it, letting the fire burn away the vast sickness in her gut. Slowly she straightened, locking gazes with the image of Thantarth in the shining sphere. “With all due respect, Master Thantarth, I cannot believe what I have just heard,” she said incredulously. “Caledan is one of the greatest Harpers alive. Perhaps the greatest. And you would simply have him disposed of like some broken tool that is no longer needed?”

  “I am well aware of Caldorien’s accomplishments as a Harper, Al’maren,” Thantarth thundered angrily. “I hardly need a mere journeyman to instruct me. It is tragic that a hero of Caldorien’s caliber must be destroyed. But the Harpers cannot allow the evil of a shadowking to be loosed upon the world once more. We have no choice. Caledan Caldorien must die. And you have been chosen to perform the deed.”

  Thantarth would not be swayed. Mari’s rage melted into numbness. “I … can’t do it.”

  “I know of your feelings for Caldorien, Al’maren. I do not envy your position. However, you must put your feelings aside in favor of the oath you swore to the Harpers.”

  She shook her head in disbelief. “You don’t know what you’re asking of me. I can’t … I can’t destroy the man I … I …”

  Thantarth’s booming voice shook the timbers of the inn. “You are wrong, Al’maren. You will do it, because I command you to do so. Your vow to the Harpers stands above all. You have no choice!”

  That was his mistake. Mari realized she did have a choice. A thrill of fear coursed through her as she thought about what she must do, but it was quickly replaced by cool calm. She raised a hand to the silver moon-and-harp pin on her green jacket—the badge of the Harpers. When she spoke, her voice was steady.

  “If as a Harper I must obey you, Thantarth, then this day I am a Harper no longer.”

  She tore the silver badge from her jacket.

  Thantarth’s expression was livid. “You cannot do this, Mari Al’maren!”

  “It’s too late. I already have.”

  His voice became a growl. “Do you understand what this means, Al’maren? You will be branded a renegade. Every Harper will have the right to hunt you down and slay you. And by all the gods, they will be obliged to do it!”

  “I know,” she said sadly. “I know.”

  Within the glowing sphere, Thantarth shook a fist at her, his face crimson. “Stop this foolishness now, Al’maren. Stop it, or I swear you will—”

  Mari did not wait to hear what awful fate he intended for her. In one swift motion, she picked up the chair and hurled it at the shimmering sphere. There was a brilliant flash and a sound like shattering glass as the orb burst into a thousand azure shards. Mari shut her eyes against the blinding glare. When she dared open them again, the magical sphere was gone. All that was left of the chair were a few charred sticks of wood scattered on the floor. They looked like nothing so much as burnt bones.

  I never believed it would come to this, Mari thought with a mixture of apprehension and peculiar exultation. I never believed that I, Mari Al’maren, would become a renegade Harper.

  Yet that was exactly what she was now. A renegade, a fugitive, and an outlaw. The full realization of what she had done crashed down upon her, and she slumped down into a chair. She had just given up everything she had ever fought for, everything she had ever believed in. But she could not destroy Caledan, and she would not let anyone else destroy him. There had to be a way to stop Caledan’s dark metamorphosis. I promised you, Kera. I told him good-bye, but I will be damned to the Abyss if I’ll turn my back on him.

  “Are they going to kill my father, Mari?”

  She had forgotten Kellen. He stood beside her chair, his green eyes overly large in his pale face. He had overheard everything.

  “No, Kellen,” she said quietly. “No one will hurt your father. We won’t let that happen.”

  He nodded gravely, then threw his arms around her neck. She returned his hug fiercely. At last she pushed him gently away and stood up. There was no time to waste.

  When Morhion arrived at the Dreaming Dragon an hour later, he found her packing her saddlebags. He raised a single golden eyebrow. “Going somewhere, Mari?”

  She firmly buckled the last leather strap and dusted off her hands. “You might say that.”

  “Haven’t you forgotten something?” He eyed the small rip on the collar of her green jacket meaningfully.

  “No,” she replied crisply. “I haven’t.”

  Interest flickered in Morhion’s icy eyes. “I see.”

  They sat at one of the common room’s long trestle tables. Estah brought hot tea, brown bread, and honey for their breakfast. The halfling innkeeper eyed Mari curiously. She had heard the commotion in the common room this morning, but Mari had not yet had the courage to tell Estah about her disturbing conversation with Belhuar Thantarth. There was no more putting it off. By the time she finished, Estah’s usually gentle expression had been replaced by one of flinty outrage.

  “They have no right,” the halfling said harshly. “Caledan has devoted the best part of his life to serving the Harpers, and in his darkest hour of need they turn against him. How dare they!”

  Mari sighed. “The Harpers always work for the greater good, Estah. If sacrificing one man can save a hundred, then in their minds it’s a fair bargain.”

  “Yet sometimes,” Morhion countered, “when one stone is taken out, an entire wall can come tumbling down. That is something the Harpers have never understood—if you’ll forgive me, Mari.”

  She shot him an ironic look. “Believe me, Morhion, no apology is necessary.”

  “What do you intend to do?” he asked.

  “Follow him,” she said fiercely. “And find him.”

  “And then?”

  “I don’t know,” she said impatiently. “I’ll think of something.”

  “I can see you’ve really thought this out,” he noted dryly.

  “Well, do you have any better ideas?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do.”

  Mari groaned. Why would mages never come out and say what they were thinking? “All right, Morhion. What’s on your mind?”

  A faintly smug smile touched his lips. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  As a brilliant square of morning sunlight crept across the wooden floor, Mari and Estah listened with growing fascination—and growing dread—to the knowledge Morhion had gleaned from the ancient copy of The Book of the Shadows. First he told them about the Shadowking. Mari knew the myth—how the ancient sorcerer Verraketh was transformed by his own dark magic into a bestial creature of evil, and how he was defeated by the legendary bard Talek Talembar. Yet, as Morhion now explained, all that was only the first part of the tale. The prelude, as it were.

  “In ancient days,” the mage began, “a blazing star fell to Toril. The only one to see it fall was a wandering minstrel. Curious, he journeyed in the direction of the falling star and came upon a smoking crater. In the center of the steaming pit, the minstrel found a hot piece of metal shaped like a star. Thinking it beautiful, the minstrel quenched the piece of metal in a pool of water and fastened it to a silver chain, making it into a medallion. The minstrel donned the medallion, and from that day on his fortune changed. First he became a renowned musician, then a noble lord, and finally the ruler of his own land. The medallion was called the Shadowstar. The minstrel’s name was Verraketh—Verraketh Talembar.”<
br />
  Mari and Estah exchanged startled looks, but they said nothing, not wishing to interrupt the mage’s narrative.

  “In time,” Morhion went on, “the medallion granted Verraketh not only great fortune, but great magic as well. It infused him with awesome power—power over the substance of shadows. It was a magic that was passed on to his only son, Talek Talembar, who became a bard and a sorcerer in his own right. As the years went by and Verraketh aged not, he became known as the Shadowmage; his kingdom was called Ebenfar.

  “The years turned into centuries, and the magic of the Shadowstar began to transform Verraketh until he was a man and a mage no longer, but a thing of pure and evil magic, which folk in fear named the Shadowking.” Morhion regarded his two listeners solemnly. “I think you both know the rest of the tale. Seeking dominion over all men, the Shadowking forged the Nightstone. But Talek Talembar defeated his father and sealed both Shadowking and Nightstone inside the crag upon which, an eon later, Iriaebor was raised.”

  “So it was from his father that Talek Talembar inherited his shadow magic?” Mari asked.

  “That is so,” Morhion replied. “There is something else I learned, though not directly from the Mal’eb’dala.” He turned to the halfling innkeeper. “Estah, what was the name of Caledan’s father?”

  She scowled, obviously wondering at the purpose of this question. “It was Caledan Caldorien.”

  “And the name of his father.”

  “Why, Caledan Caldorien, of course,” Estah replied in consternation. “Morhion, you know as well as I that it’s a family name. It’s been passed down from father to son for centuries.”